The Lady Vanishes
by I Brake For Bishounen Boys
Summary: Sherlock attempts to solve a case while his usual brilliance is somewhat eclipsed. Neither him nor John realize how life-threatening such a decision could be.
1. Chapter 1

_Thought I'd try my hand at modernizing one of the original 56 by Arthur Conan Doyle. This one is based on 'The Disappearance of Lady Frances Carfax', which is from the collection called the Case Book of Sherlock Holmes. It's always been one of my personal favourite stories from the canon, because we see Holmes operating on something less than his usual level._

_Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes and the new BBC series based on it are not mine. Sadly._

The Lady Vanishes

"How's your French nowadays, John?" Sherlock asked one day, from the corner of his sofa.

"Maybe I don't speak French at all," John retorted absently. Sherlock snorted in ill-contained disbelief, and the doctor sighed. "But I see that you've already figured out that I'm fluent. Is it any use asking how you know?"

"Your shoes."

There was a long silence. Sherlock provided no further explanation.

"Why do you need to know about my French?" John asked finally. He hated to bend to the detective's silent prompts for speech, but Sherlock was just so good at invoking the uneasy quiet that John associated with primary school teachers who wanted participation in class.

"There's a plane ticket for Paris on the mantle piece. It could be yours, along with the paid hotel room awaiting at your destination," Sherlock said, gesturing exuberantly with one hand. He was facing away from John whilst lying down on the couch, as he always did when he was in a mood that was more suited to sleep. "You wouldn't have to do much while you were there. Just ask a few questions in your very good French here and there..."

"A case?"

"Well, not strictly speaking. A curiosity."

"And you think I'm going to pack up and leave, just to satisfy your curiosity?" John asked, though he felt he shouldn't be pushing his luck at this point. It wasn't every day Sherlock Holmes decided to send someone on an all-expenses-paid trip to Paris, whatever his ulterior motives.

Sherlock sighed, and rolled over to face John.

"I perfectly understand if you don't want to go. I certainly don't," he said. "Which is why I meant to send you, rather than going myself. I thought you'd see it as a holiday. You're up for one of those."

"Well, I suppose, after not working all this time, I am due," said John, not a hint of sarcasm in his voice.

"Ripping," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "Your instructions are minimal. A lady of some importance was staying in the hotel which you're to be accommodated at. Lady Frances Carfax. A sweet middle-aged woman born at the wrong period to come out of the closet in her prime, and a bit too demure nowadays to get active in those circles. Nothing you're unfamiliar with..."

"I'm sorry?" John cut in, maybe a tad too defensively. Sherlock looked up, visibly taken aback.

"Well, the lesbianism and all. Thought that would be close to your heart."

"Oh, right, _right_, carry on."

Sherlock stared at John for a second longer, before relaunching into his spiel.

"Anyhow, she goes vacationing in Paris, God knows why, writes to her bosom friend every week without fail, as she has done for the last three decades. Except the last two, where she hasn't sent a single line. Very distressing to her bosom friend, who came to me in the hopes that I would look into it."

"And you're sending me?"

"Well yes. I can't just up and leave London. Detective-Inspector Lestrade would be quite upset, and it's been proven that every criminal mastermind in this city waits 'til I'm gone to be interesting."

Sherlock was burrowing back into his sofa, looking exhausted from exerting himself with so much talking. John waited for him to fire up again, and when he didn't, shrugged and went to the mantle piece. Sure enough, there was a ticket in an open envelope laying there, weighted down by the skull.

"The flight is for next weekend, so you have time to pack," Sherlock muttered. "Now, if you'd kindly turn off the lights. I'm very tired, and I have no desire to get up and spoil the delightful heaviness in my limbs."

John stared, but did as he was told. He climbed up the stairs to his bedroom and tried to think of what had just happened.

Sherlock wasn't taking urgent action in this case, and generally John trusted the detective's judgement enough to know that if there was no rush to solve a problem, then there was a simple and relatively crimeless solution to the puzzle with which he had been presented.

And yet, Sherlock was just coming off of a long string of cases. His seemingly inexhaustible energy had been depleted greatly, to the point where Lestrade had thought it wiser not to include the man in crime scenes. Doing nothing but eating and sleeping was the only cure for the weariness that now consumed Sherlock.

John didn't really mind, even if Sherlock got more cantankerous without the sleep he suddenly wanted, or emptied the fridge in the span of two hours due to his newly-found appetite. If the perks of eating and sleeping Sherlock included trips to France, then John was ready to support the new regimen all the way.

From downstairs, he could hear the first rich strains of a violin being tuned halfheartedly.


	2. Chapter 2

_The next installment. Sherlock's relaxation reaches near-satirical levels._

_Disclaimer- ALL NOT MINE._

Chapter Two

It was a nice room, a very nice one indeed. John looked around at the opulent hotel room and made a mental offer to take up Sherlock's offer next time he invited him to skiing in the Alps. Contentedly, he sat down on the incredibly soft mattress. He could get used to this.

A knock on the door interrupted his half-doze not fifteen minutes later. He got up with some difficulty, set some water to boil, and opened the door. A young woman stood there, looking a mite confused. She had long dark hair which curled every which way and framed her face and bare shoulders. She was abnormally tall, even in her flat shoes. On her long thin finger John could see a band, an engagement ring.

"Er, hello," John said. "You must be Ms Kerringdon."

"Mr Holmes?"

"No, I'm his colleague. Doctor John Watson," John said with a smile and proffered hand. "Sherlock doesn't like travelling," he added. He'd gotten better at bald-faced lies lately. "Please do come in."

"I thought I would be speaking directly with Mr Holmes," Gina Kerringdon said stiffly. John pursed his lips, thinking of the most delicate way to say that Sherlock really didn't think that much of this case.

"Yes, I know. He is consulting on this case, Miss. I'm just his representative."

"Yes, all right," Kerringdon said abruptly.

An awkward silence commenced.

"Well, Mr Holmes has told me briefly that you think Lady Frances Carfax has been...?"

"I do not_ think,_ Doctor. I know that Frances has come to harm," the young lady said impatiently.

"How do you know this, then," John said, and went to the kitchenette to take the whistling kettle off the stove.

"She's a creature of habit. We've written each other weekly for years, since I was in university. And today marks the fourth week she's neglected our correspondence," Kerringdon started. "I tried to contact her through other means, but with just as much success. Something's wrong."

John came back with tea, and offered her a cup.

"Is there any reason she might have stopped writing you, Ms Kerringdon?" he asked kindly, recalling Sherlock's e-mail:

**GK is engaged to be married. Affair between GK and FC cut off as a result. -SH**

"No! No, I don't think so," Gina said with genuine (looking) surprise. "She didn't let on that anything was wrong."

"What did she think about your engagement?" John prompted.

"Well, she was happy for me. I mean... what are you implying?"

"I have no idea how to put this delicately, but how did you cut off the affair after you were affianced?" John said quietly. Gina's look of surprise turned to shock.

"You think we were_ like that?_ Good heavens, no," she said angrily.

"Well, I don't think so, Sherlock does..."

"We were just very good friends. She taught me piano when I was younger. What we had was a great friendship, Doctor Watson. Does Mr Holmes not understand such a concept?"

"I hope he does," John said with a frown. "I'm sorry, Miss Kerringdon. I didn't mean to cast aspersions on your relationship with Lady Carfax."

Kerringdon took a deep breath in, and then nodded.

"It's all right. So many people just assume, because Frances tends to be so private about everything that goes on in her life..." she said. "She never had a real romantic interest in anyone for several years, at least she never wrote me about anyone."

"There wasn't anyone?" John pressed gently, pulling out his notebook. Kerringdon thought for a moment, then shook her head.

"She's always been very alone, even in her travels. More solitary than social, despite the letters."

"And she hadn't taken on any companions in her travels lately?"

"She's Lady Frances Carfax, not the ruddy Doctor," Kerringdon finally snapped. "I don't know what I expected when I hired a detective, Doctor Watson, but I was hoping for something a little more substantial than this kind of circular questioning. If you have nothing better to do than to waste my time, good day."

"Miss Kerringdon, I'm not trying to be unhelpful. Sherlock just likes to be thorough when it comes to this. Frustratingly, retentively thorough," John said apologetically. "He works in details, not broad statements."

Gina Kerringdon regained her composure, straightened her sleeves, and stood up.

"I am currently occupying room 321 of this hotel. When Mr Holmes decides to be useful and have useful questions for me, he may come to me. In person," she said shortly, and departed.

John pursed his lips, and looked at the perfectly good cup of tea Kerringdon had left behind. Upon draining it, he unfolded his laptop and opened the video chat. He had to wait ten minutes for the pleasure of Sherlock Holmes's company.

John had never had the dubious privilege of seeing the world's only consulting detective unwind. However, ensconced in a barricade of pillows and blankets with Enya playing softly in the background and a carton of cookies in hand, Sherlock looked just as ridiculously comfortable as imaginable.

"John, hello. How's the weather in Paris?" he asked, using the French inflection for the city's name.

"Gorgeous," John said. "However, Miss Kerringdon's attitude left more to be desired."

"Understandable. One of her most constant friends is gone without a trace."

"They weren't_ lovers_, by the way."

"Of course they weren't. How did she react when you broached the subject?"

"Well, obviously, she was angry that I made assumptions about their relationship. Sherlock, she doesn't want to talk to me, she wants to talk to the person she hired," John said with some finality. "That's you."

"Well, that's not possible at the moment. I'm on sabbatical," Sherlock grinned. "See?"

John glared at Sherlock. Though he was loathe to interrupt one of Sherlock's first real breath for air in such a long time, this whole situation was verging on ridiculous. John simply wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He hadn't the means or the mind to be.

Sherlock, who could clearly read John's expression, sighed.

"I have every confidence in you. Keep me informed of the case's progress. I'll point you in the right direction if I must."

"But I have no idea_ how_ to progress, Sherlock. I'm convinced that the only person who has an inkling about what's happening here is you."

Sherlock seemed to deflate into the lacy pillows of his fluffy fortress.

"I'll send you some leads," he said with a long-suffering sigh. "Now don't bother me again. There's a ticket for the opera waiting for you at the front desk."

He terminated the conversation.

John stared, then resigned himself, not uncheerfully, to an evening of culture.


End file.
